The Mysterious Enigma
by Rebelheart1698
Summary: When Sherlock and John meet Rosalie Hawthorne, the have a case like no other. Rosalie is being hunted down by a notorious gang, who want nothing more than to see her dead. But why? What is so important about her? Can Sherlock solve the case in time and keep her safe? Read to find out! Sherlock/OC. Summary sucks but please read!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys, I'm new to and this is my first fanfic. You can expect regular uploads from me, and I appreciate any feedback, positive or negative. Enjoy! **

Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were sat in 221B Baker Street, the former somewhat reluctantly, as they had just finished solving a case about a missing painting. Child's play for the great detective, really. Now, though, now the great Sherlock Holmes was bored, and he hated being bored.

"I need a case, John." He said to the short man sat opposite him. At first, John didn't answer, so Sherlock cast his eyes over to his friend. John was tired, this much was obvious from the way his eyelids were drooping, and his body was slumped in the chair, not the way the former soldier usually held himself. Even though Sherlock himself was not yet tired, he couldn't really blame John for being tired if he thought about it. They had been wandering round London for the past twenty four hours, after being called in by Lestrade to find the missing painting, and it had been pretty much non stop from there. Truth be told, he could have solved the case a lot faster, in fact he had a hunch right from the start, but he didn't see the point in rushing and ending up back in 221B with nothing to do, much like he was now. Now, he was bored, and he wanted a case.

"John?" He asked impatiently, knowing that the Doctor would hear him this time. Just as he predicted, John's gaze turned to him as he spoke.

"What, Sherlock? Oh, let me guess, you're bored?" Sherlock's silence was conformation that he was right. "No surprise there, I suppose. The great consulting detective who never sleeps needs another case. Why don't you go and find one yourself? " John muttered sarcastically, although Sherlock had stopped paying attention when he realised that John was in a bad mood due to lack of sleep. Instead, he had taken to staring vacantly out the window. It had been days since he had had a decent case to solve, either from Lestrade or a client, and he was finding it incredibly dull. He had even phoned Mycroft and asked for a case, but of course his older brother had declined, saying that government problems were not the responsibility of 'outsiders'.

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me? Sherlock?" John's voice broke through his reverie. The detective turned to face his friend.

"Yes, John?" He didn't want to make John any angrier, so he decided to be polite. Well, as polite as a Sociopath such as himself could be, anyway.

"Sherlock, since you've announced you were alive the press have been having a field trip. Whenever I check your Inbox is always bursting with cases. Have you looked in your inbox for a case, Sherlock?" Truth be told, Sherlock had been regularly checking his inbox for cases and messages, but all of them were the same. Something had either gone missing or been stolen. There were the odd few every now and then about a missing person, but emotions and love always seemed to be involved, and Sherlock deduced that it was what couples call 'a lovers quarrel' and he had no time for that. He longed for a good murder, something he hadn't had in a while. He knew people found him weird as he liked murders and crimes, but he didn't really care what others thought of him. He never had and probably never would. Except, the consulting detective knew this was a lie, for there were a select few people who's opinions he valued. John. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Molly. He would go as far as to say Mycroft, but that would mean he would have to feel sentiment towards his brother, and Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment. He smiled to himself, quite aware that John was watching.

"What's so funny?" He asked, eyeing his friend curiously. In all his years of knowing him, including the two he thought Sherlock to be dead, John Watson had never been able to completely figure out his friend.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking." Was Sherlock's blunt reply.

"Anything Interesting?"

Sherlock replied without hesitation. "No." Then, he decided that he wanted some air, a stroll around London, perhaps talk to his homeless network and see if they'd seen anything out of the ordinary lately. He had to do something to keep himself at least somewhat preoccupied.

"Off out. Don't know when I'll be back. I suggest getting some sleep." He directed his words to John whilst pulling his blue scarf around his neck, before pulling on his beloved black coat.

"Do I even want to ask where?" came the reply.

"Probably not." Was the answer the Doctor got before his friend walked out of 221B Baker Street.

John

What just happened? One minute he was bored and asking for a case, and the next he's off out? That's unusual, even for Sherlock Holmes. Despite what he said earlier, John also wanted a decent case. He knew that Sherlock had solved the whereabouts of the painting almost straight away, but he didn't let on that he knew. Ever since his friend had come back, had revealed himself to the public eye, he'd had the constant attention of the press and paparazzi, and John knew that Sherlock, with his 'High functioning Sociopathic' ways, didn't like the attention. Although John would have to say that he'd rather a bored Sherlock than no Sherlock at all, and he knew what that felt like. However, since his return Sherlock had… changed. Not a lot, but he'd still changed. Sherlock thought John hadn't noticed, but he had. Sherlock seemed more open, if that were even possible. He had taken to having regular conversation, not just with John but with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as well, about anything and everything. John even heard him having a conversation with Mrs Hudson once about cooking. Cooking? Sherlock Holmes? He was also much more careful about what he said. He'd still deduce people the moment he saw them and let them know what he saw, insults and all, but if it was someone he knew, an acquaintance, or even in some cases not, he wouldn't be as insulting. As sociopathic. This was particularly the case with Molly when he first returned. John remembered Molly telling him, as he hadn't been there himself.

_"__Molly." The mousey haired girl spun round at the sound of the totally familiar and instantly recognisable voice. He was supposed to be dead. Of course, she knew he wasn't she had helped him, but he was still meant to be in hiding, allowing everyone to think he was dead. Yet, here he was, standing before her in his coat and scarf, looking at her intently. _

_"__Sherlock! What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in hiding?" She asked. It seemed that the two years without Sherlock had worked wonders for her confidence, because she could now look him in the eye without blushing, and her voice didn't falter. Of course, Tom might also have something to do with that. _

_"__It was time to come back. There's cases and crimes to solve." Was the reply she got. _

_"__Does anyone else know? Your back, I mean?" _

_"__Only Mycroft. You're the first person I've seen except him." At his words, Molly Hooper felt a surge of pride and happiness within her. He'd come to see her first. He'd come to see her above John. Above Lestrade. Her! _

_"__Oh. Okay. Well, it's good to have you back Sherlock, but I'm guessing you're here for a reason?" She knew there was no way he'd have come here without a reason. This was Sherlock Holmes after all. _

_"__Two." Sherlock said, now staring intently into Molly's eyes. "I'm here for two reasons, Molly." At this, he took a step forward. _

_"__Do you want to see a body or something?" It didn't come out rude or sarcastic, more curious and confused. _

_Sherlock smiled. "You know me too well, Molly Hooper, that is indeed one of the reasons why I'm here." _

_"__What's the other reason, Sherlock?" She really didn't know. Sherlock only ever came here to see a body or to use a lab, so what other reason could he possibly have for coming here? She had no idea. _

_"__To say thank you, and to apologise." At these words, Molly Hooper almost did a double take. Sherlock Holmes, apologising? Thanking her? Surely she hadn't heard right. Could she? _

_"__You heard me right, Molly." Sherlock had obviously deduced how she was feeling from the shock in her eyes. It was visible for even the most unobservant person to see. 'First of all I want to thank you for what you did for me. It meant a lot to me at the time and it still does. Not many people would go that far out of their way for me, but you did, even with all the rumours flying around about me. I've said it before, but I'll say it again. Moriarty slipped up, he thought you were the one person who didn't matter to me, but you mattered the most. It's thanks to you that I'm here, Molly Hooper, so thankyou." As he finished, Molly noticed that he was standing perfectly straight, and his arms were by his sides. She could also see that Sherlock was feeling uncomfortable, as expressing his gratitude in such a manner was not something he'd ever really done before, even with John, and to have him doing it now, in front of her, shocked her more than she could say. _

_"__Honestly, Sherlock. It was my pleasure. It was the least I could do." Although it was the truth, she couldn't think of anything else to say. _

_"__That's just it though, Molly. I've never done anything to deserve your loyalty. I've never been anything but remotely civil with you at best, and yet you still did what I asked you too, so I shall apologise now, Molly. I'm sorry for the way I've treated you other the years, and I have now come to realise that it wasn't fair and was not the right thing to do. So, Molly Hooper, from now on I shall treat you the way you deserve. Oh, and congratulations on your engagement. You deserve to be happy, Molly Hooper." Molly was left utterly flabbergasted and speechless. This man in front of her couldn't be Sherlock Holmes, could he? Sherlock wouldn't have just said that, would he? But he'd seen the ring on her finger, knew she was getting married. Well, she figured there was only one way to find out. _

_"__Thank you, Sherlock. Now, how would you like to see that body?" She watched as his face lit up like a child's on Christmas day. Oh yes, this was definitely Sherlock Holmes._

At first, John didn't believe Molly when she'd told him about the encounter, but after a while he began to believe her. Sherlock was constantly apologising to John for leaving for two years, which was something the old Sherlock would never have done. One time, he'd even gone out to fetch the milk and some Chips for tea, which Sherlock Holmes never did. Not to mention his sudden appreciation for everything all of his close friends did for him. Sherlock Holmes was becoming more human.

And with that thought the Doctor drifted off to sleep.

_Rosalie_

She ran through the emptying city streets, the twilight sky lighting her way, as she fled. Her lungs felt like two giant boulders inside her chest, weighing her down, and her mouth was open as she was gasping for precious breath. She'd been running a while, longer than she'd ever run before, but she knew she couldn't stop, not with her pursuer gaining on her. How could she? If he caught her she'd be dead. But she didn't even know why. Being a criminal psychologist, she prided herself on being able to understand a criminals mind, but this was something completely new to her. She couldn't understand why he'd broke into her flat, gun in hand, and tried to kill her. Luckily, she was agile enough to be able to push past him and run, but that didn't stop him from chasing her throughout the city streets. She wasn't as fit as she used to be, but she was still fit enough to be able to run at a decent pace for a few blocks, but now she was realising that she wouldn't be able to go much further before she collapsed. She cast her eyes up in front of her, and realised that she was approaching the Inner City. _Maybe I can get help there?_ _There has to be people there._ A new wave of determination ran threw her, causing her to propel her legs faster and take deep steadying breaths until she reached her destination. Instinctively, she turned her head behind her, her eyes roaming the street for her pursuer, and to her utter dismay she saw him a few meters behind her. When he noticed her looking at him he grinned evilly. Oh no.

In her haste to get away, she inconveniently took a wrong turn, and ended up in a narrow, darkened alleyway, piled with rubbish and overflowing bins. However, it wasn't the alleyway itself that made her heart jump out of her chest… It was the dead end in front of her. _God, no! Please,_ she thought to herself as she tried to double back on herself, running the way she came, but she didn't get far before a set strong arms grasped her by the waste and started to drag her deeper into the alley. She already knew it was the man who wanted to kill her. As he continued to drag her into the alley, she got a good look at his features, as she had been too busy trying to save her life before to notice what he looked like. He was about her age, with a muscular, athletic build and broad shoulders. His blond hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, although he didn't seem out of breath at all from the run, which suggested he was used to long distance sprinting. The thing that scared her most though was his eyes. His dark brown eyes seemed almost black in the darkness, like they were empty. And it scared Rosalie, more than she'd care to admit.

"Now then, Miss, I suggest you behave whilst I play with you, or it'll only make it worse for you." A dark, low voice chuckled sinisterly in her ear, and Rosalie tried fighting his grasp once more, afraid of what was to become of her. She was about to scream, about to cry out for help, when his hand clamped tightly over her mouth, momentarily cutting off her air supply, before loosening a little.

"Now, now, Rosalie, you should know better than to scream, although if you did no one would find you." How did he know her name? That was the least of her worries as she felt her back slammed violently against the wall, knocking the wind out of her once more. She waited there, his hand still clasped tightly around her mouth, for what seemed like hours, before her attacker grinned in the dark, his pearly white teeth glinting in the light, and pulled out a knife. Rosalie's eyes widened. She began to fight back against her captor frantically, knowing if she didn't she wouldn't leave this alley alive. After a few seconds, she managed to get her mouth free from his hand, and released a high pitched scream, praying someone would hear her. No one came.

"Well, you shouldn't have done that darling. Now I'll just have to kill you faster, but don't worry because I'll make sure it hurts just as much." He sneered, his coal eyes widening with glee, as he raised the sharp silver dagger.

"Hey!" Rosalie, who had closed her eyes as she waited for the blow, despite knowing she should stare down her killer, turned to face the direction the masculine voice had come from, but all she could see was a tall shadow as the darkness of the alley obscured him from her view.

"Damn! Don't worry, I'll be back sweetheart." Cursed her attacker, before stabbing the knife into her abdomen, and fleeing. Rosalie watched as her attacker ran towards the shadowed figure, and knocked the figure down in his pursuit, obviously having no intentions of stopping. Then, black spots started to form in front of her eyes, and she could feel the wet, sticky blood oozing from her stomach. She knew she was going to die. The black spots in front of her eyes grew larger and larger, and the last thing Rosalie saw before she passed out was the shadowed figure running towards her.

_**Who do you think the shadowed figure is? What's gonna happen next? Please review! I'll take criticism too!**_


	2. Eyes That See What No Others Can

Eyes that see what no others can

Sherlock

_Dull. How can you live in one of the biggest Cities in the world and have no decent crimes? _Sherlock was heading into the centre of London City. He figured that if there was no cases, he may as well find something to occupy at least a minimal fraction of his mind. He knew he couldn't stay in the flat. He needed to get out, before he started shooting walls again. He knew how much inconvenience it caused Mrs Hudson, and although she insisted it came out of his rent, and although he could more than afford it, what with being famous, she never did take it out of his rent. He didn't want her having to pay for his boredom habits again.

He also knew that John was in no mood to talk to him. Although the ex-army doctor would never say it to his face, unless he was severely provoked, as had happened a couple of times, the detective knew he wanted Sherlock to leave, or at least shut up and leave him alone so he could get some sleep, and Sherlock, as awake as he was, couldn't deny John his sleep, but he knew that if he stayed John would never get any, and that would just lead to his being in a grumpier mood than usual with the detective, or he could end up being on the end of John's wrath once more due to him falling asleep at the medical practice, although Sherlock could hardly see why that was his fault, he decided to leave John to his sleep and take a stroll round the city.

It was dusk, and the orange skies were casting long shadows all over the city. The city streets were emptying, but a city such as London would never have completely empty streets. Sure enough, the consulting detective saw a shaggy looking man sat at the edge of the pavement across the road from him. _Early twenties, 23. Unemployed. Homeless. No family, mother dead from overdose. Never met father. Drunk. Very Drunk._ As Sherlock continued to deduce the man, he spoke.

"Oi!" Slurred the drunkard. "I know y' don't I? Y'ur that detective. T' one from the dead." Although any normal person would have found the drunkard's words early incomprehensible, Sherlock had no problem deciphering what the drunk was saying.

"Yes. I am the detective who faked his own death. Sherlock Holmes. And who might you be?" Sherlock deduced that the drunk wasn't drunk enough to not remember the basic facts about himself, and if he was going to do what he was going to do he needed this information.

"Ethan W…Wilkins" Slurred the homeless man, who looked no older than a boy with his ragged clothes, dirty black hair, sunken cheeks and decaying teeth.

"I have a proposition for you, Ethan Wilkins." Sherlock knew Ethan wasn't drunk enough to not understand him, and he didn't see any point in beating round the bush.

"Oh, yeah?" Slurred Ethan, and for the first time, he really looked at the detective, taking in his attire, his posture, seemingly trying to get a good mental image in his drunken state. Most people would have felt uncomfortable with a young, homeless drunkard staring at them, but Sherlock Holmes simply stared back, waiting for the answer he soon knew was going to come.

"And what would a detective like you want wi' me? Y' gunna take me in f' murder or summert?" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Great, a sarcastic homeless drunk. The last thing he needed.

"No, Ethan Wilkins, I want you to join my homeless network." Declared the detective, earning a scoff from Ethan. "And why would you want me?"

"You clearly have a knack for sneaking around. You're homeless so you can't afford alcohol, and yet you're drunk so where did it come from hmm? You stole it. Without getting caught. Your stealth is admirable. I could use people like you. I suppose I should hand you into the police, but that'd be so dull and pointless. Your homeless, it'd be like heaven to you. No, I want you to help my homeless network. They're my eyes and ears all over the city. They tell me if anything strange happens, and in return I pay them." Sherlock finished, already knowing that his deductions, along with the promise of money would already be enough to convince Ethan.

"Okay, wa'ever. I'll do it." Sherlock smiled. "Good. Remember, if you see or hear anything, contact me. I'm sure you know where I live, and if not, find someone else in my network and get my number off them." Sherlock had deduced that Ethan would remember this conversation in the morning, and would remember what he had signed himself up for. Ethan's mouth opened once more, as if he was going to speak, but he was cut off by a high pitched scream.

Sherlock's head whipped round in the direction of the scream. He couldn't see anyone, but ran in the direction of the scream, leaving Ethan sat on the pavement, watching him go, knowing that he was already close because the scream had not been far away. A scream like that could only mean one thing. The person who'd screamed was in serious trouble. Rape. Attack. Murder. Those were the three things that sprang through his minds as he ran. He knew the scream was a woman's because it was too high pitched for a male's, and a male would be less likely to scream anyway. Within seconds, he'd reached a dark alley, and stopped running. The alley was dark, and it was nearly impossible to see to the end of it, but the consulting detective could hear the sounds of a scuffle, and grunts, most probably from the attacker. He was in the right place. He advanced forward until he could see the outline of two figures, one pushed up against a wall, and the other, bulkier figure, holding them in place.

"Hey!" he shouted. The effect his words had was instantaneous. The muscular figure, obviously a man, bought his head closer to the trapped figures head, who was obviously a woman, before bringing his hand down to her stomach, which Sherlock now saw contained a dagger. Then, the attacker began running in Sherlock's direction. The consulting detective barely had time to dart out of the way, diving to the floor, before the man, dagger in hand, charged at him. Sherlock didn't really get a good look at him before he ran past, but he did see the main features. Blond hair. Muscular, obviously athletic. By the time Sherlock had gotten back to his feet, the man had gone, and the consulting detective knew he'd never find him. He debated phoning Lestrade, telling him what had happened and to be on the lookout, then he remembered the girl. From what he could see, she was laying on the floor, hand held to the wound in her stomach. He paused for a moment. _What do I do? She could be dead in a minute? Do I go over and help her? Or just call an ambulance?_ She had a wound to the stomach. She probably wouldn't survive to wait for the ambulance without help. He was the only one here. He had to help her.

Sherlock sprinted over to the girl, and when he got closer he could get a good look at her. She was already unconscious when he got there, and had long blonde, wavy hair that was covering her pale face. She seemed thin for her height, which looked to be about 5"6, and looked to be about 30, the same age as him. Her flowery top was covered in thick red blood from the bleeding wound to her stomach. Slowly, he crouched down and placed two fingers on her neck, checking for a pulse. He found one, very weak but there. _What do I do? _This was a situation the consulting detective never thought he'd be in, and he knew nothing of how to save a life, and he felt helpless. This was John's area, not his. John. _What would John do? He'd try to stop the bleeding, call an ambulance, and try to keep her warm. _Pulling his phone out of his pocket, the detective dialled the emergency services and requested an ambulance. The receptionist said it would arrive in approximately ten minutes. _That's too long. She'll die. I've got to stop the bleeding. _Acting on instinct alone, he pulled his scarf from over his neck, and held it tightly to the wound, effectively slowing the blood flow. It had taken him less than a minute to secure the scarf tightly around her waist, like a bandage, helping to staunch the flow of blood. He knew always wearing a scarf would come in handy, no matter how much John and Lestrade teased him. He checked her pulse once more, and found that it was growing weaker. He cursed inwardly to himself. He couldn't wait for the ambulance to get all the way here, she'd be dead by then. He'd have to meet them half way. Carefully, to avoid any further injury to the woman, he scooped her up into his arms, surprised at how light she was, and started walking out of the alley, clutching her in his arms. He could hear sirens in the distance, growing closer by the second, and he knew they'd be hear in less than two minutes, but he still carried her to the end of the alleyway, just as the ambulance approached, and Paramedics jumped out, stealing her from his arms and taking her away. Sherlock Holmes stood there, in complete shock, and as the ambulance carried her away, he only noticed one thing.

Her blood was on his hands

Lestrade

_Come to hospital. Need to see you. Please – SH _

Strange. The detective Inspector stared curiously at the message on the screen of his phone. The hospital? What's happened? He had to admit, Sherlock asking to meet him in the hospital both confused and worried him. The last time he had ventured to the hospital on the account of Sherlock had been to look over his dead body in the morgue with Molly, although he presumed that was actually someone else's dead body, now he knew that Sherlock was actually alive. The fact that Sherlock had text him to meet him in the hospital suggested to Lestrade that someone close to Sherlock had been injured, because he knew the detective would see no reason to go there otherwise. He formed a list in his head of everyone close to the detective. John. Mrs Hudson. Molly. Himself, perhaps. He swallowed, hoping none of those people were in the hospital.

Having known Sherlock for as long as he had, longer than John even, Lestrade had picked up a few of his habits. The fact that Sherlock had text him suggests that the reason he was in the hospital, besides the obvious, was to do with criminal intent. He came to the conclusion that the person in the hospital had been injured by a criminal of some sort, hence why Sherlock had phoned him so that he could make the DI aware of the problem.

Never the less, the Detective Inspector was in his car straight away, driving straight to the hospital, texting Sherlock whilst he did so.

_On the way. Is everything alright?- Lestrade _

Lestrade didn't fool himself into thinking he would get a straight answer from the detective until he saw him face to face, but he sent the message despite himself, and soon received a reply.

_Long story. Explain on arrival- SH_

_Be there in 5 mins- Lestrade._

No sooner had Lestrade sent the text, he found he had arrived at the hospital. Quickly, he parked his car outside the hospital, and walked as fast as he could inside, knowing if he ran it might cause a scene, not to mention people may notice him from the press and think a crime had taken place in the hospital, and that was the last thing the detective inspector wanted. Within minutes he had reached the main reception, which was full of people waiting to see loved ones or doctors, and Lestrade scanned the room, looking for the one person he knew would be there. Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes resided at the far end of the waiting room, as far away from most of the people as he could. He looked oddly out of place with his long black coat buttoned up tightly, although Lestrade noticed that the consulting detective was without his beloved scarf, which he always wore. Another thing he noticed about the detective as he walked towards him was that Sherlock Holmes' eyes were full of shock, and although it was only a minute gesture, he noticed Sherlock's hand twitch, as though he was waiting for something. Lestrade had never seen the detective like this, and it scared him greatly. It scared him because if Sherlock Holmes, the consulting sociopathic detective, was acting like this, then whatever had happened couldn't be good.

"Sherlock. What's going on?" Sherlock lifted his head up in his direction, and paused a moment before speaking, but his voice lacked its usual confidence, Lestrade noticed.

"There's been an attack. This evening in London. I managed to stop the attacker before he managed a kill, but some damage had already been done." The consulting detective took off down the corridors, passing several rooms full of patients in the process, until he came to the end of the corridor, and paused at the entrance of the last room on the floor.

"Seriously? How badly injured are they?" Lestrade asked, before gulping. He sincerely hoped it wasn't anyone he knew. Sherlock was doing a good job at keeping that information from him.

"Severe stabbing. Massive blood loss." Replied the detective.

"Sherlock, who's in there?" Lestrade couldn't help but ask, not knowing whether he wanted to know the answer. Shocking the Detective Inspector, Sherlock turned to him and looked at him intently.

"See for yourself." He pushed open the door and Lestrade walked through, Sherlock following behind him. He let out a sigh as he saw the figure in the bed. It wasn't anyone he thought it would be. It wasn't John, Molly or Mrs Hudson, as he had initially thought. Instead, laying still on the bed, was a woman with long blonde hair and incredibly pale skin. Too pale. Then he remembered what Sherlock had said about severe blood loss. She had a bandage wrapped around her torso, which was slightly red on the right side, and he noticed she was incredibly thin.

"Who is she?" He asked Sherlock, focussing his gaze on him once more.

The reply shocked him. "I have absolutely no idea."

"What? You don't know who she is? Then why are you here, why call me?" Confusion was etched all over the DI's face, so Sherlock clarified.

"I suppose I'll start from the beginning. I'd left the flat, needed some air. Then I met a young homeless drunk on the side of the road, or more like he recognised me and I had to clarify I was who I thought he was. Anyway, then I heard a high pitched scream coming from close by, so I ran in the direction of the sound, and came to an alley. I saw two figures, one pushed against a wall, the other pinning them there. I shouted at the attacker, who seemed somewhat shocked at the disturbance. However, before he made his escape, he stabbed the woman, and came charging past me, knife in hand, hence why I couldn't stop him. I'll admit John would have come in handy then, but oh well. I got a good look at him. Once he'd left I went to see if the woman was still alive. She was, but she wouldn't be for long if I didn't do something. So I took of my scarf and tied it to her waste to help stop the bleeding, and carried her out of the alleyway and to the ambulance." Sherlock finished his speech, leaving the detective inspector speechless.

_Sherlock saved her life?! With his scarf! He loves that scarf! He carried her? What?" _ Lestrade could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't make something like this up, genius or not. The story also explained why Sherlock looked so shocked and jumpy, although he seemed to have calmed down now that they had entered the room. He'd seen it all happen, and he'd had to save her life, without the training to do so. Heck, Lestrade wuld be feeling the same.

" I called you to inform you there had been a stabbing." Sherlock had broken his shocked reverie.

"You said you got a look at the man, what'd he look like?"

Sherlock sighed. " The alley was dark, but I saw he had short blonde hair, in a quiff style, and was muscular, so obviously went to the gym a lot. He was about 35 and judging by the scars on his hands this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. Oh, and he had a birth mark on the back of his neck."

"Ok, I'll have people set onto it right away. But, who is she Sherlock, have they given you a name?"

"Not yet, but from what I can deduce she's 30, single, lives in a small apartment In North London, which means she has some money, so she's more likely a secretary as she doesn't seem like a lawyer or business woman, and she's clearly not a doctor. It looked like she didn't know her attacker, judging by her actions, so he probably broke into her flat. The cuts on her hand suggest that glass was broken, which also suggests a break in. I'm guessing she ran out of her flat, into London, and took a wrong turn."

Lestrade tried his best not to gawp, and instead turned his attention back to the woman in the bed. "What did the doctors say?"

"She lost a lot of blood. They had to give her some transfusions. They stitched up her wound. Should be fine once she wakes up, although she'll have to take it easy when she wakes, apparently."

Lestrade sighed. At least she was going to be alright. He knew they'd have to interview her once she woke up, she is she knew anything, or could give any more details on her attacker, but he didn't want to push it, as he knew Sherlock would.

"Listen, Sherlock. I know we're gonna have to question her when she wakes up but don't do it straight away alright? Poor woman is probably gonna be shaken to hell." He reprimanded, and was surprised to get a reply.

"Despite what people think, Detective Inspector, I am not as heartless as people think. I shall, indeed, wait until she is ready." The detective Inspector thought he heard an underlying tone of something else in the consulting detective's voice, but brushed it off immediately. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

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Please review! Good or bad! Thanks!


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